‘To lead it. It’s my best chance to kill Æthelhelm.’

‘Why not join Æthelstan in Mercia?’

‘Because if the West Saxons hear that Æthelstan is using Northumbrian troops they’ll regard that as a declaration of war by Sigtryggr.’

‘That won’t matter if Æthelstan wins!’

‘But he has fewer men than Æthelhelm, he has less money than Æthelhelm. The best way to help him win is to kill Æthelhelm.’ Far to the east a speck of sail showed. I had been watching it for some time, but saw now that the distant ship was travelling northwards and would come nowhere near us.

‘Damn your oaths,’ Finan said mildly.

‘I agree. But remember, Æthelhelm has tried to kill me. So oath or no oath I owe him a death.’

Finan nodded because that explanation made sense to him even if he did believe we were on a voyage to madness. ‘And his nephew? What of him?’

‘We’ll kill Ælfweard too.’

‘You swore an oath to kill him too?’ Finan asked.

‘No,’ I admitted, but then touched my hammer once more. ‘But I swear one now. I’ll kill that little earsling along with his uncle.’

Finan grinned. ‘One ship’s crew, eh? Forty of us! Forty men to kill the King of Wessex and his most powerful ealdorman?’

‘Forty men,’ I said, ‘and the troops of Cent.’

Finan laughed. ‘I sometimes think you’re moon-crazed, lord,’ he said, ‘but, God knows, you’ve not lost yet.’

We spent the next two nights sheltering in East Anglian rivers. We saw no one, just a landscape of reeds. On the second night the wind freshened in the darkness and the sky, that had been clear all day, clouded over to hide the stars, while far off to the west I saw lightning flicker and heard Thor’s growl in the night. Spearhafoc, even though she was tied securely in a safe haven, shivered under the wind’s assault. Rain spattered on the deck, the wind gusted, and the rain fell harder. Few of us slept.

The dawn brought low clouds, drenching rain, and a hard wind, but I judged it safe enough to turn the ship and let the wind carry us downriver. We half-hoisted the sail, and Spearhafoc leaped ahead like a wolfhound loosed from the leash. The rain drove from astern, heavy and slanting in the wind’s grip. The steering-oar bent and groaned and I called on Gerbruht, the big Frisian, to help me. Spearhafoc was defying the flooding tide, racing past mudbanks and reeds, then at last we were clear of the shoals at the river’s mouth and could turn southwards. The ship bent alarmingly to the wind and I released the larboard sheet and still she drove on, shattering water at the bows. This, I thought, was madness. Impatience had driven me to sea when any sensible seaman would have stayed in shelter. ‘Where are we going, lord?’ Gerbruht shouted.

‘Across the estuary of the Temes!’

The wind rose. Thunder hammered to the west. This coast was shallow, shortening the waves that shattered against our hull and drenched the rain-sodden crew with spray. Men clung to the benches as they bailed water. They were praying. I was praying. They were praying to survive, while I was asking the gods to forgive my stupidity in thinking a ship could survive this wind’s anger. It was dark, the sun utterly hidden by the roiling clouds, and we saw no other ships. Sailors were letting the storm blow over, but we hammered on southwards across the wide mouth of the Temes.